Chapter 13 Loriana
Loriana
The porcelain toilet bowl is cold against my cheek as I heave up what little breakfast I managed to force down this morning.
Again. For the third time this week, I’m sprawled on the marble floor of Simeone’s palatial bathroom, my silk nightgown twisted around my legs while my body rebels against everything I try to put in it.
“Stellina?” Simeone’s voice carries through the bathroom door, thick with sleep and concern. “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” I call back, though my voice sounds like I’ve been gargling gravel. “Just something I ate.”
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but not as bitter as the truth I’ve been avoiding for a while now. Because this isn’t food poisoning or stress or any of the dozen excuses I’ve been making to myself as I’ve watched my body change in ways that should be impossible.
Should be impossible, but aren’t.
I press my forehead against the cool marble, trying to steady my breathing while my mind races through the mathematical impossibility of my situation.
One time. We were together one time, that night in my apartment when everything changed between us.
One perfect, devastating night that apparently was enough to turn my entire world upside down.
The bathroom door creaks open, and I don’t need to look up to know Simeone is studying me with those piercing dark eyes that see everything I’m trying to hide.
“You’ve been sick every morning for a week,” he says quietly, moving to kneel beside me on the cold floor. “That’s not ‘something you ate,’ stellina.”
His hand is warm against my back, rubbing gentle circles that make me want to melt into his touch and confess everything.
But how do you tell a man like Simeone Codella—a man whose world is built on violence and control and careful calculation—that one night of passion has created the most beautiful complication imaginable?
“I’m fine,” I repeat, but the words lack conviction even to my own ears.
“Loriana.” There’s something in his voice that makes me lift my head to meet his gaze. “Talk to me.”
I almost give in. Something about the worry creasing his features, the protective way his fingers brush my skin—I want nothing more than to collapse against him and trust him to fix this the way he fixes everything else, with that quiet, absolute confidence.
But this isn’t his decision to make. Not yet.
“I just need some air,” I manage, pushing myself up on shaky legs. “Maybe I’ll take a walk in the gardens.”
Simeone’s expression tightens, but he doesn’t press. “Don’t leave the estate grounds.”
“I know the rules.” The bite in my tone surprises even me. I watch something flicker across his face and wish I could take it back—his concern deserves better than my defensiveness, but terror makes me cruel when I should be grateful.
I retreat to the gardens, leaving his unspoken words behind as my bare soles find the wet grass.
Grass tickles between my toes, dewdrops catching light like tiny promises while I navigate paths that wind through my beautiful cage.
For these precious moments, I’m just a woman breathing in summer air—not someone whose world is about to fracture.
But even in the relative peace of the garden, I can’t escape the changes happening to my body.
The way my breasts feel tender and full.
The exhaustion that hits me like a freight train in the middle of the afternoon.
The way certain smells—coffee, bacon, Simeone’s cologne—make my stomach lurch with nausea.
The bench cradles me while water dances its eternal performance, each splash a reminder that some things can’t be contained.
I built my life like a fortress—walls of logic, moats of precaution.
But Simeone found every weakness in my armor, and now I’m sheltering something that could bring down the entire structure.
But a part of me—a part I’m afraid to acknowledge—isn’t horrified by this development. Part of me is thrilled by the idea of being pregnant. I’ve always wanted children, always imagined myself as a mother someday.
I just never imagined the father would be a mafia don with enough blood on his hands to paint a small village.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me from my spiraling thoughts. A text from Clay:
Bar’s doing well. Miss having you around though. When are you coming home?
Home. The word hits me harder than it should because I realize I don’t know where that is anymore. Is it my apartment above the bar, the life I built for myself brick by brick? Or is it here, in this beautiful fortress where I’m protected but trapped, cherished but caged?
And if I’m carrying Simeone’s child, where does that leave me? Where does that leave us?
Another wave of nausea hits me, and I double over on the bench, dry heaving while my mind races with all the ways this could go wrong. What if Simeone sees a baby as a liability? What if he thinks I’m trying to trap him, force him into a commitment he never wanted? What if—
“Miss Parlato?”
Movement draws my attention upward, and there’s Tiziano with that diplomatic mask he wears so well, except for the worry he can’t quite hide in his ice-blue gaze.
“The boss wants to see you in his office,” he says quietly. “When you’re ready.”
Of course he does. Simeone isn’t the kind of man who accepts evasive answers or deflection. He’ll want to know what’s wrong, and he’ll keep pressing until he gets the truth.
The truth I’m not ready to share.
“Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I say, standing on legs that feel distinctly unsteady.
Tiziano nods and disappears back toward the house, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and the growing certainty that I can’t hide this much longer. Every day I wait makes it worse, makes the secret heavier to carry.
But how do you tell a man like Simeone that he’s going to be a father?
I find him in his office an hour later, after I’ve showered and dressed and practiced a dozen different ways to deflect his inevitable questions. He’s standing behind his massive desk, sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows and catching the silver in his hair like fire.
“Stellina.” His voice is warm, intimate, but I can see the worry lurking in his dark eyes. “Feeling better?”
“Much.” The lie comes easier this time, though I’m not sure either of us believes it. “Sorry for being so grumpy this morning. I think I’m just adjusting to... all of this.”
I gesture vaguely around the opulent office, letting him think I’m talking about living in his world instead of the very real changes happening to my body.
“Adjustment is normal,” he says, moving around the desk with that fluid grace that never fails to make my pulse spike. “But so is honest communication between us.”
“Are you saying I’m not being honest?”
“I’m saying you’re avoiding something.” He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne—the scent that’s been making me nauseous for days now. “And I’m wondering what it is.”
His perceptiveness shouldn’t surprise me. Simeone didn’t build an empire by missing details or accepting surface explanations. Of course he’s noticed my evasions, my morning sickness, the way I’ve been putting distance between us.
“Maybe I’m just tired of being a prisoner in paradise,” I say, deflecting with half-truths wrapped in attitude. “Maybe I miss my real life. Maybe I am homesick.”
“Is that what this is about? You want to go back to your apartment?”
The genuine concern in his voice makes my chest tight with guilt. He’s trying to protect me, to keep me safe from threats I don’t even fully understand, and I’m lying to his face about something that affects both of us.
“I want to feel like myself again,” I admit, which is more honest than anything else I’ve said today. “I want to stop feeling like I’m living someone else’s life.”
“And what would make you feel like yourself again?”
The question catches me off guard because the answer is so simple and so complicated at the same time. I want to tell him the truth. I want to stop carrying this secret alone. I want to know how he’ll react with the news that could change everything between us.
But I’m terrified of his response.
“I don’t know,” I whisper, which is the biggest lie yet.
Simeone’s eyes strip away my defenses with practiced ease. He knows secrets—how to find them, how to use them. Right now, I’m certain he can see mine written across my face in letters I can’t erase.
“Loriana,” he says quietly, and there’s something in his voice that makes my breath catch. “Whatever you’re afraid to tell me—don’t be.”
“It’s not that simple,” I breathe.
“Isn’t it?” He tilts his head to the side. “Tell me what’s wrong, stellina. Let me fix it.”
“You can’t fix this, Simeone. No one can fix this.”
“Try me.”
The challenge in his voice, the absolute confidence that he can handle whatever I throw at him—it almost breaks my resolve completely. Almost makes me confess everything right here in his office.
But what if I’m wrong?
“I need some time,” I say instead. “To figure out how to say what I need to say.”
Frustration flickers across his features, but he doesn’t push. “How much time?”
“A few days. Maybe a week.” I’m stalling, and we both know it, but I need space to think. To plan. To figure out how to tell a mafia don that he’s going to be a father.
“Fine.” The word is clipped, clearly not fine at all. “But Loriana? If this is about someone threatening you, if someone has made contact—”
“It’s not about threats.” That much I can say honestly. “This is about me. About us. About something that changes everything.”
The admission hangs between us like smoke, heavy with implication. Simeone’s dark eyes search mine, and I see the exact moment he starts putting pieces together in ways that terrify me.
“Loriana—”
“A few days,” I repeat, backing toward the door before he can voice whatever conclusion he’s reaching. “That’s all I need.”
I flee his office like a coward, my heart pounding against my ribs as I race up the stairs to our room. Behind me, I can feel his gaze tracking my every movement, can sense the predatory patience of a man who’s decided to let his prey think they’ve escaped.
But as I close the bedroom door behind me and lean against it with shaking hands, I know I can’t run from this forever. The truth has a way of surfacing, no matter how deep you try to bury it.
And this truth—this beautiful, terrifying, life-changing truth—is already growing inside me whether I’m ready for it or not.
Two days later, I’m still no closer to finding the right words. Two days of morning sickness and exhaustion, and Simeone watching me with increasing intensity, clearly trying to solve the puzzle of my strange behavior.
Two days of carrying this secret alone while it grows heavier with each passing hour.
I’m sitting in the garden again, trying to work up the courage to march into his office and tell him everything, when my phone rings. Dr. Scalise’s number flashes on the screen, and my blood turns to ice. Simeone made me go see her when the vomiting didn’t go away.
“Miss Parlato? I have your test results.”
As if I need confirmation of what my body has been telling me for weeks.
“And?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Congratulations. You’re definitely pregnant. Everything looks normal and healthy so far.”
Pregnant. I’m really pregnant. I only had sex once, and I’m pregnant.
“Miss Parlato? Are you there?”
“Yes,” I manage. “I’m here.”
“I’d like to schedule you for another appointment next week to discuss prenatal care and—”
“I’ll call you back,” I interrupt, hanging up before she can say anything else.
Pregnant. Officially, medically, undeniably pregnant with Simeone Codella’s child.
The confirmation should scare me, but instead, it fills me with a strange sense of calm. The waiting is over. The uncertainty is done. Now there’s only the truth and whatever comes after I finally find the courage to share it.
I stand up on shaking legs and start walking toward the house, toward Simeone’s office, toward a conversation that will change everything between us. My heart hammers against my ribs with each step, but I don’t slow down. Can’t slow down.
It’s time.
I don’t knock on his office door—just push it open and step inside like I own the place. Simeone looks up from his computer, and the expression on his face tells me he’s been expecting this moment.
“Stellina.” His voice is carefully neutral, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands have stilled on the keyboard. “Ready to talk?”
“Yes.” I close the door behind me with deliberate precision, then turn to face the man whose child I’m carrying. “I’m ready.”
He leans back in his chair, giving me his full attention. “I’m listening.”
For a moment, words fail me completely. How do you change someone’s entire world with a single sentence? How do you tell a man who controls everything that he’s about to become responsible for something completely beyond his control?
“I’m pregnant.”